Stories
by DollopheadedMerlin
Summary: Set in the universe of Scars and Souls - A series of short stories revolving around Merlin's time waiting for Arthur to return.
1. Ruins

Marveling at every detail, from the way the floors were worn and cracked to the fine stitched tapestries bearing noble symbols, Merlin walked the ancient halls of his old home. He smiled at the way the stones glowed from the golden light of sunrise that shone through the patterned, glass windows.

Mindlessly he roamed, his feet carrying him up the familiar stone steps, echoes of dear faces passing him by.

He stopped abruptly, turning to the large, wooden doors beside him. With a wistful sigh, he threw them open and strode inside, humming as he approached the windows.

Tugging the curtains wide, Merlin cheered, "Arthur, it's a new day-" He stopped, eyes going wide at the sight before him, a ruined, desolate land, far different from the Camelot he knew. He spun on his heels only to find that the room had vanished, the disastrous landscape stretching on in all directions. He panicked, cold sweat trickling down his back as his breath hiccuped. With a start, he looked down, finding his old, tattered boots stepping on thin air.

His magic failed him then and he plummeted down the height of the once glorious castle as he wailed in remorse.

He crumpled as he hit the ground, a mess of blood and broken bones. Sobbing, he tried to sit up, looking about at his life's grave, marked by the rubble that was left behind. His cries turned into sputtering breaths as his strength left him, struggling to stay alive because he did not want to feel the emptiness of death again.

A startlingly familiar voice blended into his thoughts as they swam inside his head. Shushing him affectionately, it said, " _Just lie back, Merlin. Please. I know it's hard to remember. Just . . . close your eyes. Let your mind and body heal. You will feel better when you wake."_

Letting out one, final sigh, Merlin let his senses slip away and, as his world turned black, he could only hope that his king spoke the truth.


	2. Woman

With tousled, knotted hair and flushed, red cheeks, Merlin sat on a stool in a small cottage, looking every bit the innocent child.

A woman, tall and slim, with a head of bright, yellow hair, stood in the doorway, talking in hushed voices with the local medicine man. Merlin peered around her shoulder to get a look at him. He was wearing pendants bearing numerous religious symbols and wore long black robes. Merlin frowned, thinking he might be a priest. In recent times, Christian men often mistook good magic for the work of the devil. Some of the whole hearted believers reminded him a bit of Uther, what with how they pranced about town, practically singing about how menacing magic was.

The old man caught his eye and the woman followed his gaze, looking back at him with wide, brown eyes. He smiled, his large, uneven, baby teeth gleaming. He loved this woman. She had adopted Merlin upon finding him wandering the woods in the form of a child. She'd taken him in, called him son.

Her brow wrinkled in worry and it startled Merlin. Grin falling from his features, he stared back at her, watching as she turned back to the priest.

" _Oh no . . ."_ breathed the voice, of whom he told his surrogate mother was his imaginary friend.

" _What?"_ Merlin questioned, a chill running down his spine.

" _She knows."_

" _Knows what?"_

" _Merlin . . . Oh, how did we forget?"_

" _Arthur, what . . ."_

" _You haven't aged, Merlin. You've been with her for years and you haven't aged."_

Merlin's eyes went wide and glassy as he looked at his foster mother's back and the disgustingly passionate eyes of the priest who thought him the devil's product.

When they finished speaking, the woman thanked the priest and softly closed the door. Then, her brow still creased with a multitude of emotions, she knelt down beside her adopted son and placed a shaking hand on his shoulder.

"Merlin," she said, her voice just above a whisper, "you are an extremely clever boy." She laughed nervously. "You're more knowledgeable than any _wiseman_ , let alone other _children._ I don't ever know how to compete with you."

Merlin swallowed anxiously and looked down at his boots.

"Look at me."

Reluctantly, he obeyed and, for a moment, she looked so incredibly woeful. But then her jaw hardened with resolve and she spoke once more. "I have to go away for a while. There are . . . some _things_ I must do out of town . . . but I'll be back. So, you just wait here, and It'll be over before you know it. Alright?"

Tears welled in Merlin's eyes and he wondered if she knew that he was aware of his constant youth. Numbly, he nodded before she wiped the tears from his eyes with her thumb. He wanted to believe that it was because she cared for him, but her hands still trembled and her brows were still knitted together.

Hopelessly, he watched as she packed a few things, including a cross that she gripped tightly in her hand as if afraid to let go of it, and left, with one, cautious look over he shoulder before shutting the door.

"Maybe she'll come back, as she said," Merlin rasped to the empty house.

" _No, Merlin,"_ Arthur replied. " _I don't think she will."_


	3. Circus

He woke with a gasp to the familiar sight of red and orange patterns above his head. He was in his tent, lying out on his table as usual. The click of heels made his head turn to find his keeper, a charming lady with thick, dark curls framing her heavily painted face. Vibrant red lips revealed a devilish smile as she stood by him.

"Feeling better?" she asked.

There was a terrible ache in his chest and his muscles felt weak. Not entirely able to remember what had happened to him, he cleared his throat and replied with a hoarse "No."

"They really did a number on you last week," she explained. "We had to shut down the show."

She helped him sit up then, piling pillows behind his back to hold him up. He looked down at his bare chest and the scars that branded him, some still red and fuming. He looked on to his skin tight shorts, colored yellow on his left side and blue on the other.

"You haven't forgotten again, have you?"

"No," Merlin said shyly, recalling his role at the circus.

"We'll have to limit how many people can see you at once," she said with a sigh. "It takes you too long to recover this way. More shows is better than a large audience with no control."

"I don't remember the last show."

"Yeah," she breathed. "I didn't think you would. You took a hammer to the head. That's when we shut everything down. I told them the face was off limits. That big, old bruise is going mess up your stage makeup."

Merlin brought a quivering hand up to the side of his face, where his right temple was still swollen and hot. "Did I die again?"

"Yeah. I think the internal bits have all been healed, though," she answered, pointing to Merlin's head. "You've been out for weeks and you're still not healed enough to be put out in front of a crowd. We could always cover the scars and stuff with makeup, but I doubt you can walk very well. We've had to cancel two shows. People think you've actually died and that it's just an act. I tried to tell them that the more severe the injury, the longer it takes for you to rejuvenate yourself, but they're practically rioting over you. They think it may be a hoax, that you may have died . . . permanently."

Merlin's stomach churned at the memory of people hacking at him with a vast variety of torturous devices. He would walk out before the crowd, all clustered about the entrance to his booth, and wave before allowing his keeper to strap him down. Then, she'd display a rack loaded with weapons and tools. With the price of admission, anyone could enter and have their way with Merlin, torturing and killing him in any means possible. Then, the gimmick was to have them pay again at the next show, if only to see that he had once again made a miraculous recovery. He had no doubts that their audience would be irritated if he took much time to heal. He hated the cruel twisted minds that took pleasure in harming him, but, time and time again, his keeper would say something that would make him stay.

". . . need to get you back out there as soon as possible before they get too roudy. I wish I knew how this gift of yours worked so we might speed it up a bit."

Merlin hadn't realized that she had started talking again, lost in thought as he often was, and only half heartedly listened to what he heard.

"Keeper," Merlin said softly.

"Yes?"

"I was wondering if . . . maybe after the next show, once they all see that I'm alive and well . . . might I . . . leave for a little while?"

Her pale, green eyes went wide. "Why would you ask that of us, Merlin? This is your home."

"Yes . . . but I'm tired and . . ."

"These poor people depend on you. The people of the circus don't make enough on their own. You're the main event! You put food on our table!"

"Yes . . . but I have been here so long. Everyone else . . . They all move on eventually . . . I think it might be time that I-"

"You have been passed down through my family for generations! My great, great grandfather took you in! Tamed you! You would disrespect him by leaving! You owe him this; taking care of his family for his hospitality!"

Merlin shrunk in on himself for saying something out of line. "Sorry," he muttered. A tremor ran through him then and he held himself. Heat settled in his chest, seeming like hot, strong hands were cradling his heart. He let out a sigh, finding the warmth welcoming in the chilled tent. He swallowed, having trouble keeping his eyes open.

"Merlin?" she questioned.

He let his eyes slip closed, a hum rumbling up his throat.

"Oh . . ." his keeper breathed in exasperation. "Not this now." She put her hand on Merlin's shoulder and shook him, calling his name urgently. "Merlin. You need to wake up."

His lashes fluttered as he tried to obey, but the tug of sleep was strong and he was still not fully recovered. His body needed more time to rest and not even his keeper could coax him back into consciousness.

"No, Merlin. This isn't to be trusted. The voices are bad, remember? Do not listen to them. They only tell lies."

The words echoed through Merlin's head, familiar and uncomfortable. He'd always been warned against the voices in his head, ever since he'd been taken in. He'd hear the echo of a distant call in his mind and feel as though he should listen. Often he'd space out whilst with the other performers and someone would always have to snap him out of his daze before he could make out what the allegedly treacherous voices were saying. Sometimes, it was more difficult to shut out and he would be thwapped on the back of the head or boxed around his ears to draw him away from them. He shut them out. It's what he was taught to do.

He couldn't remember what he used to be. He could barely even remember his early years in the circus. He remembered that man, though. All those years ago he'd been alive and would always coddle Merlin and promise that he'd keep him safe from the people of the world as well as the people in his head, so long as he performed. It was how they had come to be such a popular circus after all; his impossible stunt, letting people cut into him and bash in his bones only to reappear at the start of the next show unscathed.

There was always something about his original keeper, though. He would stand so very close to him, one hand on his shoulder, keeping him close with a tight grip. He was his most valuable possession.

He knew that's what he was; a prop, a tool to get food and shelter with. He figured it was right, though. He had been tamed by his original keeper, so he was told, which made him think that he had once been something unwanted and irritable, possibly even wretched. Perhaps those with eternal life should not be allowed independance. Such a long existence is sure to lead to greed or power. It was best that he was governed by temporary beings.

The circus kept him in check, helped him ignore and deny the voices in his head . . . but now, with so much silence and so much nothing surrounding him as he healed, he found it more tempting than ever.

And he wanted to leave. Too long he'd been with this family. Too long he'd let them sell his body to the sick minds of their spectators. They'd always told him that it was for the good of his family, those who brought him in and nurtured him, but he wanted to know who he'd been before all of this.

As the voice grew louder and more evident, he could finally recognize some emotion through the haze, an urgency, a long denied hope coming up to the surface to greet him with great persistence.

Suddenly, it became familiar, coursing through his mind, filtering through old memories that had been long forgotten. With a start, he remembered who he was and why death denied him time and time again. He felt the joy and pride and love and heartbreak of his entire life all at once, stirring inside his heart until that awful, familiar, welcoming ache settled there.

The incomprehensible murmurs in his head finally began to sound like actual words as he honed in on them, and the first word he made out through the haze was an overwhelming, "Merlin!"

He gasped a awake, panting and sweating and writhing about on his poor excuse for a cot. Struggling, he turned onto his side and looked desperately towards the tent opening. Groaning in pain, he rolled over, tumbling off the bed and hitting the ground with a hard thump. He winced and he waited, breathing heavily through clenched teeth as he listened for his keeper.

They were all gone, at lunch, at a meeting, performing; he didn't care. In his half healed state, he clambered to his feet, grasping onto the leg of the table for support until he was standing.

"Go," Arthur urged him. "Now, whilst they are absent."

Merlin expressed a strong determination in reply, wobbling across the plane until he stumbled through the tent flap. He tripped on a mat, sprawling out onto the dry, dying grass surrounding him. He turned himself over and looked at his poster.

"Merlin the undying," he sneered, cursing the circus folk for taking advantage of such a curse for their own fame. He froze, hearing the crunch of footsteps on the thirsty earth.

A tall, bald man with one less eye than he ought to have came out from a nearby tent, dressed in tight clothes and adorning a long jacket. "Merlin!" he called out before bounding towards him.

With a forceful thrust of his hand and a golden gleam in his eye, he sent him back, hitting the ground hard like a felled tree.

"Go!"

He scrambled to his feet and ran as fast as his body would take him. He weaved around and about tents and stands and trailers, his legs falling over each other and arms barely able to help with his balance.

Once he reached the edge of the camp, he fled blindly, turning random corners and skittering down abandoned alleyways. Only when he came upon an old bakery was he finally spent. Eyes drooping and breath shirking away from him, he slid down the side of a dirty wall. The fresh bread and hot garbage mingled in the air of the alley as he went slack.

"This is far enough," Arthur assure. "Rest now. You need not be out of their reach, only out of their recognition. Flee no longer, but hide, Merlin. Stay hidden."

Merlin nodded and, with the last of his strength, took the form of a beggar, old and worn and slumbering beside a dumpster.


End file.
